Haunted by Dead English Authors
by True Colours
Summary: England is trying to deal with today's problems and form stable international relationships, but his past won't let him go. It seems he can't have a simple dinner-party without the ghosts of authors past chipping in, some helpfully, others...not.
1. William Blake

**Haunted by Dead English Authors**

**Chapter 1: William Blake**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Hetalia.

**A/N: This is a de-anon from the kink meme, based on this prompt: '**I would like to see something where Arthur is visited by several English author ghosts in the span of a night, each coming in chronological order. Whomever you choose is up to you, but I would like it if they gave him a hard time by reminding him of things he's done in the past, things he'd rather not remember in his history, things that honestly annoy him, etc. Headcanon sort of says that what an author writes about in a specific time period is the nation's subconscious, whether they like it or not.

Bonus: England _hates_ Charles Dickens.  
>Bonus 2: He first met J.R.R Tolkien while he was still a soldier during WWI.'<p>

**Having posted the final section on there, I realised that I'd forgotten a crucial joke, so I thought I might as well put it up here. The scene opens with the British Prime Minister, David Cameron, making a speech about the economy, and one dead English author is not happy about it...**

'The decisions we make will affect every single person in this country, and the effects of those decisions will stay with us for years. Because the legacy we've been left is so bad, the measures that we need to deal with it will be unavoidably tough. But people's lives – and this is vital – people's lives will be worse, unless we do something _now_.'

_Calm down, Arthur, _England told himself, rubbing his temples as his prime minister continued to speak. _Just deal with it. You've been there before; it's hardly the Great Depression…_

'"I wander through each charter'd street,' a voice intoned behind him, 'where the chartered Thames doeth flow, and see in every face I meet, marks of weakness, marks of woe.'

England sighed.

'In every cry of every man, in every infant's cry of fear, in every voice, in every ban, the _mind-forged manacles_ I hear.'

'Yes, yes, Mr Blake, I'm familiar with your poem, I read it when it was first printed,' England snapped. 'Please allow me to focus on Mr Cameron's speech –'

'How the chimney-sweeper's cry every blackening church appals, and the hapless soldier's sigh runs in blood down palace-walls…'

'Oh for goodness' sake! I know you might not have approved of every battle I sent my soldiers into but…look, he's not even _proposing_ a war! And I got rid of chimney sweeping decades ago…'

'But most,' the old poet ploughed on grimly, 'through midnight streets I hear how the youthful harlot's curse blasts the new-born infant's tear…' He paused, fixing England with a madly glittering eye.

'You're going to finish it, aren't you?'

'…and blights with plagues the marriage hearse.'

England gave a faint moan and dropped his head into his hands. He could feel the rims of his ears glowing, and silently thanked the heavens that, no matter what else might befall him, France was not there to see.

'Really, William…my dear boy…' he said weakly. '_Must_ we have such…such references…in the middle of –'

'Two steps forward, three steps back!' the ghost of William Blake declared in that same horrible, chant-like rhythm, and for a moment England feared that he was about to begin composing on the spot. 'This new minister of yours, Arthur, is morally dead! Education cuts indeed! A fine manner of stupefying the masses' sense of right!'

'Blake, he's not proposing to put a stop to compulsory education…'

'_The legacy we have been left is so bad_,' Blake repeated scornfully. 'See! See how he subtly lays blame on the shoulders of his forebears; blame he is not – "man" - enough to take upon himself! And which of your dissolute children has enough wordcraft to notice, or is master enough of his courage to stand and point out the trick? None of them!'

'I keep trying to explain to you,' England said hopelessly, 'that's not the way the political system works. We can't have people just standing up and interrupting politicians in the middle of speeches; there's be plenty of criticism later, in the newspapers and all over the internet –'

'Chatrooms!' Blake declared, and England half-expected a thunderclap of disgust to resound around the auditorium. _The moment he figures out what the sound and lighting box is for…_ he thought, and supressed a shudder.

'Chatrooms,' Blake said darkly. 'Sneaky, mean-spirited mutterings of dissent. Oh, a fine invention, the finest manacle the mind ever forged, the softest, most undetectable and perfect gag of all –'

'Well _I have the free press,_ okay!' England shouted, leaping to his feet. 'And _you_ are _dead_. So THERE!'

As he slammed out of the hall, his rage was made the more complete by the knowledge that the second part of his argument had been no argument at all. And the ghost – bugger him – would no doubt soon be back with a crushing and ear-splitting argument.

'Damned radicals,' he muttered. 'Bring back subsistence farming, I say.'

**A/N: I totally haven't done my research, so I hope it suffices. If anyone can think of a snappier title, let me know.**

**True xxx**


	2. JRR Tolkien

**Chapter 2: J. R. R. Tolkien**

**A/N: In which England gets pretty much his only break in this entire fic. **

England pushed open the door to find his house in a haze of pipe smoke.

This struck him as rather odd, since he'd kicked the habit himself several decades back, and he entered the hall with some apprehension.

'Hello?' he called. 'Who's there?'

'Evening, Kirkland,' a voice answered from the study. 'I thought I might just pop in and borrow your desk; hope you don't mind.'

'Ah –' England stepped into the study, waving a hand in an attempt to waft away some of the smoke that was obscuring his vision. Spectral smoke is only half as dense as normal smoke, so he imagined that the pipe must have been burning for quite some time. 'Well, not in principle, no, but look here, Tolkien, it's a bit much really to just come in here and –'

'Yes I know!' John Tolkien's spirit, seated so habitually at the desk that it might almost have been solid, twisted round to face him. He held a sheaf of paper in one hand and his eyes were full of earnest light. 'But I specifically wanted to ask your opinion on a short piece I have been writing. It takes place in Oxfordshire.'

Up until that moment England had been in a thoroughly bad mood, brought on by his encounter with Blake and a two-hour speech by his Prime Minister (Politicians Aren't What They Were, he thought, remembering the quarrels of Gladstone and Disraeli.) But the sight of the peppery old author speaking so eagerly, still childlike in his passion for his craft and not letting the fact that he was dead impede him in the slightest, warmed his heart. _A little patriotism,_ he thought, _does the soul a power of good_. _There isn't nearly enough of it around nowadays._

'I doubt there's much I can tell you about the county of Oxfordshire that you don't already know,' he said, settling himself in an armchair beside the desk. 'However, I could give you a piece of advice with regard to your own writing.'

'Mm. Please do so.'

'In "The Lord of the Rings," your best-known work, you drew vividly the "hobbits" of Oxfordshire – "the brewing of ale and the smoking of pipeweed."'

'Noble occupations both,' Tolkien put in, drawing enthusiastically on his pipe, 'when counterbalanced by a little high adventure.'

'Quite so,' England nodded. 'Anyway, it is my opinion that you should counterbalance this portrait in your literary canon by writing a piece focussing on the academic life of Oxford.'

'I see. Give my readers a thorough look at the place, eh?'

'Exactly. Thus may the learned archives of Gondor and the enduring lore of the hobbits be found together in one county.'

'Splendid!' Tolkien exclaimed, scribbling vigorously. England smiled.

There was silence for a few moments, except for the scratching of Tolkien's pen and occasional creaks as England shifted in his seat. Then Tolkien spoke again.

'Ahem. You seemed a little out of sorts when you came in, Kirkland.'

'The whole country's out of sorts; haven't you noticed?' England replied defensively. 'What with the recession going on and all the politicians saying one thing and meaning another…though that's been going on for quite some time now. I wouldn't mind that so much except that it takes twice as long to skirt round an issue as it does to say it straight.'

'The shortest distance between two points is and always has been a straight line,' Tolkien murmured.

'Would that they taught our ministers a little elemental geometry,' England grumbled. 'I'll tell you one thing: at least during the wars we had politicians with guts.'

'Ha ha,' Tolkien chuckled. The silence returned for a moment, and then England sighed and spoke again.

'And of course Blake showed up and offered me his view on the matter.'

'Ah…I see,' Tolkien said. 'Oh dear.'

'Yes. Oh dear.'

'A singular poet, but angry. Very angry. And with just cause; things are far from perfect…'

'Yes, but I tell you…' England made a gesture in the air, searching for words. 'This is the trouble; I find it all the time with early twentieth-century Russian authors, I find it with Blake, I find it with these revolting modern preachy novels…goodness, I'm not looking forward to some of these contemporary authors dying…writing becomes a surrogate for politics. I remember a time when there wasn't a hero in Russian literature but he was a Marxist Man of Iron.'

'Sometimes one hankers after a plain good story…'

'And when they die they can't kick the habit! All he ever does is preach! Not like with your novels; you had your agendas too, I don't doubt, but at least there was something positive there too. At least there was a sense of something worth preserving. The good old Hobbit; _that _was a novel to read in the trenches!'

'I'm glad you found it heartening.'

'Very much so. The way some of these writers carry on it makes one wonder if there's any point in trying. Their aim seems to be to prove that Life Is Futile. Well, if there was ever a hollow victory, proving that true would be it.'

'Hmm.' Tolkien scratched his chin with the stem of his pipe, his expression thoughtful. 'I honestly doubt we would have lasted that battle as well as we did if you hadn't been with our regiment that day,' he said suddenly. England shrugged.

'I like to show solidarity with my children where possible.'

'Well, it did wonders for my spirits. The Charmed Charge we called it afterwards, where one could really feel one was fighting for one's Nation.'

'A nasty business, the great war,' England said.

'Very nasty. I fear it did for some men; they couldn't write afterwards, or if they did it was, as you say, this loaded social and political commentary. But for me…well, the fighting was unpleasant, but it gave me the scope I needed. One cannot write about an epic world without including an epic battle, after all.'

'No, one cannot,' England agreed, but the remark made him think, drifting back to times that even this shade of the past, old though he was, could not remember. _All these wars…we nations get so wrapped up in them, just like our children, but maybe…if only there was another way…_

'Most of all…' Tolkien was still talking… 'I found it made me appreciate my hobbit-hole in Oxfordshire as I had never done before. Something worth preserving, as you said. And if there were those who scoffed at me for being able to appreciate my home comforts after what I had seen…well, it was like old Lewis used to say; remember him?'

'Vividly.'

'Good old Clive Lewis. He wrote about the different ways people use the phrase "real life." How when one is sitting comfortably in an armchair with ale and pipe, the cynical-minded will say that the enjoyment he feels is nothing but a chemical response in the brain to the plain, "real" facts of the situation. But when they are advising a man who plans to sign up for the war, they say, "you feel brave now, but wait until you find out what it's really like," and suddenly the _emotions_ of fear and horror which can only be experienced in the thick of the action, rather than the plain physical facts, which can be perfectly well imagined, have become "real." So I don't see why I shouldn't continue to enjoy the pleasant side of life when it is offered to me, just because I know how unpleasant it can become. Or write in appreciation of it, either.'

'An astute chap, C.S Lewis,' England said.

'Very astute,' Tolkien agreed, a little wistfully. He drew a pensive lungful of smoke and changed the subject. 'Always seemed a bit of a shame to me that we ended up fighting the Germans. They seemed to have the right idea at the turn of the century; not like those silly French –'

'_Oh_!' England exclaimed, leaping out of his seat.

'Kirkland?'

'Oh sssss…_sugar_!'

'Whatever is the matter?'

'Oh no, I just remembered! I'm having France, Germany and Italy for dinner tonight, and they're arriving in ten minutes! Oh, drat it all!'


	3. Introducing Wilkie Collins

**A/N: Sorry for the delay; I know I said I would make this regular but I had just one more exam to do. But I'm a lady of leisure now :D**

**Chapter 3: Introducing Wilkie Collins**

The doorbell rang.

'Your guests are here,' Tolkien said, half-rising from his seat. 'I suppose I had better clear off, hadn't I?'

'No,' England found himself saying suddenly. 'No, stick around for a bit, why don't you? I'm sure you will make a pleasant addition to the company.'

'Well, I don't know about that,' Tolkien replied, looking flattered just the same. 'I'll just sit quietly in the corner and smoke my pipe and see how things go, shall I?'

'Yes; you're most welcome,' England nodded. He leaned forward and added in a lower tone, 'at least I'll know there's one person in the room who isn't stark staring bonkers.'

'I wouldn't be too sure of that,' Tolkien murmured, smiling quietly around his pipe. England ignored this remark, already hurrying to open the door.

All three nations had arrived together and were waiting on the door step. The mere sight of them – Germany stiff, France smirking, Italy looking so energetic that one could almost hear the tinkle of breaking ornaments just looking at him – made England feel weary. _If we get through tonight without rows and broken furniture, it will be a miracle, _he thought. _…no, bear up, man; we're mature, modern, _sensible_ nations…_

'Ve, good evening, England!' Italy chirruped at once, bounding forward to seize him in a bone-crushing hug and kissing him on both cheeks. France stepped forward to deliver the same treatment, and England seized both his hands just before the kisses were administered. It wasn't the normal way of conducting a handshake, but at least it kept them from…wandering.

And then both the ridiculous Latin nations had been ushered into the house, and all that remained was to share a nice, bracing handshake with Germany. Thank God.

'Guten abend, Deutschland.'

'Good evening, England.'

'Yes, isn't it? The air is just beginning to warm up a little. Please, come in.'

He led them down the oak-panelled hall and into the dining room.

'Ah…have a seat. Dinner is nearly ready; I'll pop into the kitchen and fetch you some drinks while you wait…' England was momentarily distracted by the sight of Tolkien drifting nonchalantly through the wall and settling down in the corner with his manuscript.

'Ooh, what's for dinner?' Italy asked eagerly.

'Italy!' Germany exclaimed at once. 'It's impolite to ask such questions –'

'Oh, _Angleterre_,' France broke in, 'you should not have been to such trouble.' England glared at him suspiciously, and sure enough there was a sting in the tail of this apparently courteous statement. 'Far safer to just let me do the cooking, _mon ami_.'

'Will it be pasta?' Italy asked, before England could formulate a suitably cutting retort. 'I love pasta!'

England caught Germany's uncharacteristically pleading look and shook his head. 'No, I'm not making pasta.'

'Ah,' Germany sighed in relief, then seemed to realise he had done so out loud. 'I'm sorry; it's not that I dislike pasta but…after five years of it when we were allies…'

'Understood,' England nodded, as Italy burst out in horror,

'Ah, what do you mean you don't like pasta, Germany?'

'These two, they don't understand true culinary finesse, little one,' France sighed, leaning back in his chair. 'Theirs is a life of subsistence: work, eat, sleep…'

'Snails and frogs' legs are all very well in their way,' Germany said stiffly, 'but when one wants a strengthening meal –'

'Wurst and potatoes,' France stated, letting the facts speak for themselves.

A red glow began to creep up Germany's neck.

'Ve, I still think pasta –'

'Pasta nothing!' England leaned forward and planted both hands on the table for maximum menace. 'I knew I wouldn't be able to please all of you, so we won't be having pasta, _or_ wurst, _or _frogs' legs. We will be having some of _my_ cooking, and you can all be united in your hatred of it and actually agree on something for once.'

'Here, here!' Tolkien said approvingly. 'Good decision.'

'Thank you,' England nodded.

'I did not say anything, Arthur…' France said.

'You're not the only person in this room whom I might be moved to thank for something,' England answered coolly.

'And I don't see anything wrong with potatoes,' Tolkien continued, refilling his pipe.

'Quite,' England agreed somewhat curtly. He was wary of getting into too long a conversation with a ghost, even one as agreeable as Tolkien, when he had guests to manage – sorry, to serve.

' "_Po-ta-toes._" ' But Tolkien was hitting his stride now. ' "_The gaffer's delight, and rare good ballast for an empty belly_," as Samwise Gamgee said,' he quoted with enthusiasm. And you mentioned the war, you know,' he added to Germany with a shake of the head. 'When you referred to pasta. I wish we didn't have to have that rule of not mentioning the war; it's dashed difficult.'

'Tolkien, don't tease him,' England said sternly. 'Now, I'll go fetch the food…'

'Germany…' Italy asked in a small voice, 'who is he talking to?'

'I, er…I don't know.'

'Oh, I'm sorry,' England said. 'Mr Tolkien was just casting a vote in favour of potatoes and pointing out that you came very close to…mentioning the war…' _Dammit._

'Angleterre, _you _just mentioned the war,' France said.

'Shush, I know I did!' England snapped. He rounded on Tolkien. 'This wouldn't happen if you didn't pass remarks – '

'Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.' England stiffened as France's hand closed over his elbow. 'Quiet now; we can't have you having your own conversations with ghosts of dead authors in the corner!'

'I can't help it that they won't stop haunting me!' England said testily.

'Yes, I know; yours is a country haunted by its literature; the best critics and historians have said so!' France said sympathetically – or at least with a pretence of sympathy. 'No land has been more thoroughly represented by its writers, so it is no wonder that you…feel their presence at times, but maybe you should just sit down quietly for a moment now, and not let yourself get worked up, while _I_ run and fetch the dinner…or maybe we will just forget the dinner, and I will knock something up…'

England shook him off. 'Not on your life!'

'No indeed; a dashed waste!' Tolkien agreed.

'Tolkien, would you just pipe down a moment while I –'

'Ve, Ludwig, he's scaring me…'

England was just drawing breath to protest or explain or _something_ when there was a thunderous knocking at the door – apparently merely for form's sake, since a moment later the door swung open by itself with an ominous creak.

'What's that?' Italy looked about ready to leap into Germany's lap in terror.

'Just a draft, _Italie_. Really, _Angleterre, _this horrid cold house of yours –'

'_Ha, ha, ha, ha…_'

France trailed off as a low, murky chuckling began, at first more of a creeping up the spine than a sound, slowly building to reverberate in the rafters and fill the whole room with its ghastly mirth. And then, in the doorway, a silvery form began to materialise.

'_Heilige scheisse_!' Germany exclaimed, overturning his chair as he leapt to his feet.

'_Mon dieu_!' France gasped, dashing behind England and seizing him by the shoulders. 'The Napoleonic Wars are over! _Angleterre_, explain about the _Triple Entente_!'

The eerie chuckling grew in pitch, and then, as the mist cleared to reveal the ghostly shape of an English gentleman, it became a laugh of delight.

'Good evening, good evening!' the apparition exclaimed. 'Terribly sorry I'm late. What have I missed?'

Ignoring the quaking Frenchman who was clutching at his shoulders, and Italy's terrified squeaks from under the table, England heaved a sigh of resignation.

'Evening, Mr Collins. You haven't missed much at all.'


	4. Wilkie Collins

**Wilkie Collins**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Hetalia, nor do I have any author-slaves.

'Having a dinner party, are we?' Wilkie Collins asked, shedding his cloak, cane and top hat by the door. They began to sink towards the floor, very slowly, like dry ice or thistledown. In about half an hour, England reflected, there would be a fine clutter on the floor.

'Tolkien!' Mr Collins said heartily, striding forward to shake his fellow author by the hand. 'I was hoping to bump into you again! And who do we have here?' He turned to the three European nations. 'Bonnefoy, you old scoundrel! Fancy meeting you here of all places. Making a go of things again, are we?' He looked between France and England. 'Well, I thoroughly approve; let bygones be bygones and all that. And Ludwig, and little Feliciano too! My, my, you do know how to pick the company, don't you, Arthur?'

'Meaning what?' England asked tersely. He could feel prickles of sweat breaking out on his shirt; Mr Collins hadn't said anything completely unacceptable yet, but it was only a matter of time.

'Oh, I meant no disrespect to your guests,' Mr Collins assured him, taking a seat without being invited. 'A variety of nationalities; an array of subjects and opinions. I'm sure the conversation was absolutely thriving.'

'Chance would be a fine thing,' England muttered.

'So,' Mr Collins said, 'would you object if I sat and shared a pipe with you?'

'Not at all,' Tolkien said mildly, as Italy nodded eagerly, Germany grunted, 'feel free,' and France made a sweeping gesture of acquiescence.

'Yes,' Mr Collins said, sitting back comfortably and smiling at this universal approval – well, almost universal – England was quietly gnashing his teeth. 'The most stimulating social occasions of my lifetime were always accompanied by the presence of foreign ladies and gentlemen. As well as the unorthodox notions they brought to the table, it was often amusing to watch the occasional outlandish turns of their characters, just as now, when each of you welcomed me after the fashion of his fellow countrymen.'

'Collins,' Tolkien put in, catching England's agonised grimace, 'perhaps now is not quite the time –'

'Such observations are an author's bread and butter!' Mr Collins overrode him. 'While other men move in the sea of life and society, we view it from above, as it were, and take note of whatever peculiarities happen to amuse us…we are caricaturists, if you will, in our own medium. Why, seeing you three countries gathered together in England's house reminds me very much of a scene in one of my best-known novels –'

'Oh, bother,' England sighed. He had heard this before.

' – "The Moonstone!"'

'The Moonstone,' Germany echoed, perhaps searching for a sensible response.

'_Invented _the modern detective story as we know it today, good sir!' Mr Collins declared, waving his pince-nez sternly at Germany. 'Classic of the genre. And it reminds me of tonight because it contained, as one of its leading characters, a gentleman by the name of Mr Franklin Blake, who had been educated in Italy, France and Germany!'

'Really?' France said. 'What an interesting effect that must have had on his character!'

'You may count upon it. The different sides of this gentleman are changed about and presented at different times, much to the confusion of the dinner guests at the heroine's birthday party. A fine comic passage, if you will permit me to quote.' He cleared his throat.

'"_That foreign training of Mr Franklin's – those French and German and Italian sides of him, to which I have already alluded – came out, at my lady's hospitable board, in a most bewildering manner._

'"_What do you think, for instance, of his discussing the lengths to which a married woman might let her admiration go for a man who was not her husband, and putting it in his clear-headed witty French way to the maiden aunt of the Vicar of Frizinghall? What do you think, when he shifted to the German side, of his telling the lord of the Manor, while that great authority on cattle was quoting his experience in the breeding of bulls, that experience, properly understood, counted for nothing, and that the proper way to breed bulls was to look deeper into your own mind, evolve out of it the idea of a perfect bull, and produce him? What do you say, when our county member of parliament, growing hot, at cheese and salad time, about the spread of democracy in England, burst out as follows: 'If we once lose our ancient safeguards, Mr Blake, I beg to ask you, what have we got left?' – what do you say to Mr Franklin answering, from the Italian point of view: 'we have got three things left, sir – Love, Music and Salad!'"_

'And Pasta!' Italy added.

'Quite so,' Wilkie Collins nodded. '"_He not only terrified the company with such outbreaks as these, but, when the English side of him turned up in due course, he lost his foreign smoothness; and, getting on the subject of the medical profession, said such downright things in ridicule of doctors, that he actually put good humoured little Doctor Candy in a rage."'_

'Oh, _Angleterre_, how could you?' France cried, getting into the spirit of the thing.

'I…um.' Germany cleared his throat. 'I would…er…just like to reassure everyone that I would not really advocate such a method of breeding a bull…'

'No,' Tolkien said, tamping down a fresh pipe, 'times have changed; yours is a more practical outlook nowadays. Ah, those good old days when the Germans dabbled in philosophy and the breeding of bulls! Much nicer than when we were slinging shells at one another in the trenches, wouldn't you say, old chap?'

'Ahem,' Germany coughed. 'Yes, much nicer.'

'I can't believe you would miss out pasta, ve,' Italy muttered, then quailed as Mr Collins's ghostly eyes turned on him.

'The pasta is essential is it? Well, I'll bear that in mind for next time. You live and learn, eh. _Die_ and learn, haha!' He slapped Italy on the shoulder, and Italy gave a yelp and leapt practically into Germany's lap.

'I can hear music,' Germany said faintly.

England raised his head, which had found its way into his hands in the last few minutes, and stared at him reproachfully.

'Ludwig, _must_ we have that sort of carry-on at the dinner table?'

'No, I mean it,' Germany insisted, fending Italy off. 'I really can hear music. Singing. Listen.'

Wilkie Collins's chuckles had subsided. England listened, and now that he was paying attention he found that he could indeed make out the faintest echoes of a song.

'_Food, glorious food, hot sausage and mustard…_'

'Hullo,' Tolkien muttered. He, France and Italy inclined their heads and listened as well.

'…_while we're in the mood, cold jelly and custard…_'

'How unsavoury!' France exclaimed.

'Oh no,' England said quietly, a sick, heavy feeling beginning in the pit of his stomach. 'No, no, no…'

'_Just picture a great big steak, fried, roasted or stewed…_'

'_Stewed_?' France repeated. '_Angleterre,_ no! Surely you would not take a fine piece of steak, a _filet mignon, _and _stew_ –'

England banged his fist down on the table. 'Shut up, France! That is _not_ the point!'

'Arthur – ?'

'We have bigger problems! Oh, bloody, bloody hell…'

The voice, so jaunty on the surface compared to Wilkie Collins's dramatic entrance, but so much more weighted with menace, reached a triumphant climax,

'_Oh, food, wonderful food, marvellous food, glorious food!'_

And for the second time that night, the dining-room door banged open.

Arthur glared across the table at the apparition in the doorway.

'Good heavens!' the ghost exclaimed theatrically. 'If it isn't the British Nation himself! Good evening, good evening!'

'Charles Dickens,' England said darkly, not bothering to hide the venom in his voice. 'What a delightful surprise!' The ghost drifted into the room, revealing a familiar dour-faced figure floating behind him. 'Oh, and you've brought Mr Blake, too. Well, how absolutely spiffing!' He turned to the assembled company. 'Alright, who invited them?'

**A/N: This was a pretty awesome prompt. 'England really hates Charles Dickens.'**


	5. Charles Dickens

**Chapter 5: Charles Dickens**

'I wouldn't say _invited_, exactly,' Wilkie Collins began. England fixed him with a stare so murderous that it rendered even the dead man a little uneasy. 'Well, _protégée _in life, companion in death as they say,' he reasoned with a would-be-airy wave of the hand. 'I happened to bump into Dickens along one of the walks he and I used to favour in our prime days, and mentioned to him that I intended to drop in on you this evening and had got the idea that you were holding a –'

'A carouse, an orgy, a riot of debauchery at the expense of the groaning masses!' Blake burst forth. His waistcoat swelled with indignation; his eyes flashed lightning before the thunder of his voice resounded again. 'Despicable excess made all the more vile by its veneer of civilisation! What are you but dapper, legitimised, blue-collar baronets, giving to the people with your left hands and taking away with your right, waxing fat on the groaning of your labouring classes? Deadening their reason and dulling their misery with the opium of consumerism while with the engines of authority you attempt to deny them benefits, healthcare, the very education that raises them from mere beasts to men who might question your greed – You, France, where is your revolution? And you too, Germany and Italy? Drinking cosily around the table, and in the middle of a recession! Will you solve the deficit between the claret and the champagne? Fiddling while Rome burns, rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic –'

'A yes, the _Titanic._' Dickens eased himself into a chair between Tolkien and France – the better to attack England's best line of defence on the one hand, join forces with his natural enemy on the other, and face his crony Collins across the table – rolling the word around his mouth, not quite like fine wine, but like a particularly acidic vinegar he was about to spit sharply into his opponent's face. 'A singular episode, that. After my time of course, but you would remember it, Tolkien, I believe.'

'Yes,' Tolkien said unwillingly. 'A great shame.'

'And yet,' Dickens continued, holding two fingers up as though to frame a picture that only he could see, 'possessed of a kind of peculiar irony which is…not pleasing, of course, but certainly engaging to those of our profession. We deal in such ironies, after all, and when Nature of herself produces them…well, it is a disconcerting thing, to be almost ousted from one's profession by the workings of mere chance!' He gave a horrible, throaty laugh.

'It being mere chance, of course,' France put in. Maybe he was only trying to point out that suffering was brought about by accidents as often as by the malice of the upper classes, but England couldn't help thinking, _shut up, France, don't feed him lines_.

'An _extraordinary_ series of chances!' Dickens rejoined, as though in emphatic agreement. 'Why, did you know that the hull of the ship had in fact been designed in the form of a number of great steel bubbles, as it were, so that even if one were ruptured in a collision the vessel would still float? Had the captain only steered head-on into the iceburg that did the mischief instead of attempting to steer when it was already too late, the ship might have been saved. But no, he turned, and in turning tore _every section_ along the hull of the vessel. Tragic. But from it we may draw a lesson for life: if men, or nations, having steered themselves foolishly into trouble, would only meet that trouble head-on, they might yet come through. It is the mixture of cowardice _and_ stupidity that kills.'

And he fixed England with a hard and sardonic eye, though England couldn't for the life of him think what incident he might be alluding to.

'And then,' Dickens ploughed on remorselessly, still addressing France, 'bethink you that there was in fact another ship within striking distance of the Titanic, who received their radio signal for help. But they forbore to give assistance, recalling a description they had heard of the new British vessel: "A ship so mighty God himself could not sink it." They thought that the Titanic could not possibly be in any serious trouble, and ignored its message! A fictitious twist of fate could hardly have been more incredible, could it?'

'If this had been a tale I had been writing,' Wilkie Collins chimed in, 'I would have hesitated to include that event, for fear of being accused of labouring my point!'

'Exactly! And when you consider the agony with which the ship went down – ah, what a blend of tragedy and farce! There is a poor young woman whom older, wiser and more learned men had promised nothing more than a journey to the New World in record time. They have given her more than she asked for; the sea bathing which she has always heard to be so beneficial! But the water here is ice cold; it is not a holiday she will return from. But see! Here is a rich officer, son of a noble landlord who turned to the tobacco trade when his estate ceased to be lucrative. In the stiff sea breeze of Southhampton he took a turn around the deck, basking in the pride of the unsinkable British liner – surely proof that their Nation and their Empire was the greatest on Earth and could never fall – and then peered over the top of his waxed moustache at the lifeboats aft and declared: 'the deck looks too cluttered! How are the gentry to promenade around the deck of an evening if they must clamber over unsightly mooring ropes? Remove some of these boats! – there must be a few, to ease the minds of the more nervously disposed, but why carry more? For we modern engineers are immortal; let us cast off the symbols of our mortality! But now he struggles and thrashes through the waves towards the nearest boat, and thrusts that worker's daughter aside in his desperation to scramble into a seat, and he does not recall that he did not see the need for a lifeboat, and that maybe he should leave that seat to the humble passenger, or that person of a nervous disposition whom it was there to reassure, and should swim to America! Oh, a pretty irony indeed!'

'Well I think it's horrid!' Tolkien said in a short, snappish tone – a sure sign that he was near either to fury or to tears. _Good old Tolkien_! England thought. _As though any decent author would ever welcome a tragedy just so that they could write mocking, doom-laden prose about it!_

'My friend, so do I!' Dickens exclaimed, throwing up his hands, 'and I would pity the engineers sincerely in their disappointment if only they would learn! One technological project fails; one would think they would grasp the futility of it, but no! A few decades later they begin another one! Take the _Concorde_, for example – of course, nations have always enjoyed being at loggerheads with one another, but it is a peculiarly modern phenomenon to see them spending such large amounts of public money just to create a point of contention.'

'Arthur and I were only trying to learn to co-operate…' France murmured, no longer looking quite so amused.

'Yes!' England agreed eagerly. 'Our relationship councillor suggested that a shared project –'

'Cowardice!' Blake overrode him. Wilkie Collins flinched a little at his strident tone. 'This perfectly illustrates your point about cowardice, Dickens! They _begin_ the Concorde project, it immediately becomes apparent that it is failing, but will they stop? Admit defeat? No; instead, we see a desperate piling in of money – the public money, as you said…'

'A farcical clutching at straws,' Dickens re-joined. He tutted into his beard. 'Cowardice.'

'_Monsieur _Dickens,' France said, 'I think you are misjudging. It was not cowardice, but rather a determination to see through what we had started together, rather than to give up at the first sign of difficulty –'

'Ho,' Wilkie Collins chuckled. 'If it had been me I would have given up the moment I had heard you French were involved. And if I had been _you_ I would have called it quits in 1066. Not meaning to belittle you, old chap, but there it is…'

'Oh, come now, Collins,' Tolkien interposed hastily, as France spluttered. 'France has proved itself influential since the Battle of Hastings –'

'Of course!' Wilkie Collins exclaimed. There was a pregnant silence. 'In the Napoleonic Wars.'

France banged his fist down on the table. 'What are you implying?' he demanded. 'My beautiful country has always been influential in – '

'_Routed_ at Waterloo!' Wilkie said smugly. 'Trounced by the Germans in the Franco-Prussian war! Reduced to shivering behind the Rhine, loudly demanding yet more sanctions against your foes in every defensive treaty going! _Flattened_ in a month in 1940 –'

'I would prefer,' said Germany, speaking for the first time since Dickens' entrance, 'that you did not make light of that –'

'_Thank_ you,' England said, taking advantage of Germany's interruption and getting to his feet. 'Now look here, Collins; Dickens; Blake; I didn't ask you to waltz in here and start insulting my guests –'

He flung out one arm in an emphatic gesture towards Italy, who yelped and fell off his chair. France made a disgusted noise and darted to help him up.

'Look, _Angleterre, _now you have frightened him!'

'_I_ have frightened him?' England protested. 'I was only trying to restore some sort of order! Maybe if he wasn't so damned easily frightened – '

'Do not start on _Italia_! Just because you cannot control your own authors and only dare speak out against them when you have the excuse of defending your guests –'

'Well I don't see what I've done!' England snapped.

'How could you tell those _vile_ ghouls about Concorde?'

'It was common knowledge! It was in the papers!'

'Tcha!' France swung back to Wilkie Collins. 'You may think what you like! I may have made the occasional _faux-passe, _but _you_ are _dead_.'

'And you would do well,' Germany added, 'not go make sport of…of past events.'

'Say, Germany, what's the difference between Adolph Hitler and Joseph Chamberlain?' Wilkie Collins asked, unabashed. There was a horrible silence.

'Chamberlain takes a weekend in the country, and Hitler takes a country in the weekend!' he said gleefully.

'Right,' Germany said thickly. He turned to England. 'I'm sorry, Arthur, but if this continues I'm going to have to leave early.'

'That's it,' Blake rumbled darkly. 'Stop your ears and bury your heads, flee from those who would make you aware of your follies…'

'Germany speaks for both of us,' France said stiffly. 'I will not continue this argument.'

'Cheese-eating surrender-monkey,' Wilkie Collins muttered.

France's face went white, then scarlet. 'How dare you?' he shouted. 'You, with your miserable, rainy weather and your foul cuisine –'

'THAT'S IT!' England bellowed. 'I've had it!' He knew that whoever snaps first had lost, but he couldn't stop the torrent. 'I try to prepare a nice dinner for you all and what do I get? Ghosts insulting my guests and guests insulting my cooking! When's the last time you tried to eat something of mine, Francis? When have you ever given my food a chance –'

France was glaring, Blake was wearing his I-told-you-so face, as though the dinner were going exactly as he had expected, Dickens' eyes seemed to flash with vindictive lightning; it seemed he could almost hear the crash and see the blazing – and then thunder _was_ crashing, a great tearing peel of it; a gale of cold wind swept the room, pressing the light of the electric bulb down dim as though it were a gas flame or a candle; his frustrated anger vanished, replaced by a sense of bewildered exhilaration as a rush of power erupted in the room, filling it to the brim and setting the rafters creaking. It was a shocking sensation; he was not sure whether he himself was the source of the power or whether he was being racked by it, one with a nation's worth of rapt, helpless readers.

He could tell – though he did not quite dare turn – that a darkness had amassed behind him, that a presence was growing in the middle of that darkness, and that it was from this new apparition that the power and the thunder came – and then, at his shoulder, a ringing voice spoke.

'Shame upon ye, authors! Shame! Have you forgotten the land that begot ye? From whence does inspiration flow, where is the succour of hearth and home, where the pastures of thy youth, O Blake, O Collins, O Dickens, thou dissembler?'

The smirk was gone from Wilkie Collins' face. Dickens was perfectly still, and despite the fact that he was thin as air England could somehow tell that he had gone pale. Even Blake was silenced.

'_This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,_' the voice behind him thundered. _'This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, this other Eden, demi-paradise, this fortress built by Nature for herself  
>Against infection and the hand of war, this happy breed of men, this little world, this precious stone set in the silver sea, which serves it in the office of a wall, or as a moat defensive to a house, against the envy of less happier lands, this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this <em>England_…_'

As the voice of Shakespeare spoke, the ghosts seemed to shrink before it. England, head bowed and shoulders hunched against the onslaught of sound, and uncomfortably hot under the collar, saw Blake and Collins fading, retreating from the greatest writer of all, until they blurred softly away into nothingness. The other three Nations were not erased so easily, but they all backed away from the ghost, for once awed into speechlessness. At his elbow Tolkien was burning low; silent, listening.

Shakespeare drew to a close, and the whole room seemed to heave a breath. England stayed bent over the table, both arms braced to hold himself in place. He was sure he was no less shaken than anybody else.

He felt Shakespeare come forward to stand by his elbow – he still hadn't turned around, but he could never fail to mistake the presence of this playwright, who had written so prolifically, made their names all but synonymous and chose to champion him so fiercely. He raised his head and saw that Dickens was still sitting across the table. He seemed unabashed, though not unmoved, but somehow he looked too tired for England to view him with the same dread as he had a few seconds ago. Or maybe it was just that England himself was too tired to be properly awed. Either way, the author had lost his inescapable, malignant presence. Not the inescapable voice of revenge from the past. Just a ghost.

'Get ye gone, Dickens,' Shakespeare said. 'A man may criticise out of love, but he who hates his country is a fool. Remember thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return – English dust.'

'I do love my country,' Dickens muttered. 'Too much to see it rot.'

Shakespeare chuckled. 'Art never satisfied, lad. Wilt thou not be satisfied with the progress thou seest? Nay, nor even congratulate thy fatherland on what he has achieved?' He clapped England on the shoulder, and for a moment it almost felt like solid contact.

'He cannot avoid the truth forever!' Dickens insisted – suddenly he sounded like the boy Shakespeare must see in him. 'Even amidst all these fine trappings of diplomacy, see how readily a meeting descends into chaos –'

'You were the one who started going on about Titanic and Concorde in the first place,' Shakespeare pointed out dryly.

'France should learn a little humility! And forbearance. And were their differences truly resolved, Kirkland would have been quicker in his defence!'

'T'is impossible to teach all this to a nation in one night,' Shakespeare told him gently.

Dickens' voice was bitter as he answered. 'Then must I cease to try?'

'Charles,' Tolkien said from behind him. England couldn't see the look he gave Dickens, but it was enough to make the other ghost rise and reach for his hat.

'Remember what I say, Arthur,' he said. 'You nations must learn true diplomacy, true democracy, and until you do –' he nodded at Tolkien – 'we authors will be here. Both living and dead. Good evening to you.'

He donned his hat and drifted through the wall in preference to the door. Half-turning, England caught a glimpse of a silvery figure in a ruff, turning towards Tolkien. Tolkien nodded once and removed his hat. He held it in his hand as the ghost slowly faded to nothing. The last of England's strength seemed to fade with it. He collapsed into his chair and slumped forward with his head on his arms.

'England…' Germany hesitated. 'I…er…I'm sorry…'

'Just go away.'

'_Angleterre_ –' France tried.

England snapped upright and banged the table. 'All of you, _out_!'

Italy didn't need telling again. He scrambled for the door with France behind him. Germany hesitated for a moment, then shook his head and hurried out after them.

'Kirkland?' Tolkien said tentatively. There was no response. 'Ahem…Arthur?'

'Just leave me alone,' England muttered. He heard Tolkien sign once, and then it was quiet, except for the sounds of him pacing around and puffing on his pipe – not quite noises, since he had next to no substance, but definite sensations of presence and movement. England burrowed deeper into his arms. He wished even Tolkien would go away.

There was a faint rustling. He shifted his head a little, freeing his ears. Could it be a wind creeping in? By God, Francis had been right about the draughts…but then the rustling began to slowly resolve itself into whispers.

'What's wrong with old Arthur?'

'A rather unsuccessful dinner party,' he heard Tolkien reply. 'Some of the others turned up. Blake. Dickens. Collins making light of the war. Poor old Kirkland was already attempting to field France…'

'Oh dear, what a combination! Have you tried to speak to him?'

'Once. He's a bit fed up, I'm afraid.'

'Tut tut. Poor fellow. They can be a bit overbearing, can't they, those Radical chaps? Well, I'll see what I can do. I say, Arthur! Won't you sit up and join us?'

'I don't feel like it,' England growled, his voice muffled by his arms.

'Come now, the devil loves self-pity,' the voice said briskly. England sighed and sat up slowly. Clive Lewis was bending over him.

'Good man!' he said. 'Put it behind you, I would. These foreign nations can be tiresome, but they mean well. Mostly. What exactly happened, Tolkien?'

'Oh, Dickens very cleverly led the conversation around to Concorde and then set Collins loose on the subject,' Tolkien explained, coming up behind England. 'France took offence, and for some reason took it most strongly against Kirkland…possibly since we are all products of him to begin with.'

'Yes.' Lewis looked keenly at Tolkien. 'Something that those authors would do well to remember, I think.'

England watched the look they gave each other. He recognised it well; understanding, mutual respect, and just a hint of mutual envy. It was a look he had often shared with France.

Lewis, Protestant theologian, and Tolkien, Catholic creator of worlds. Whatever their causes of jealousy or disagreement, they had been friends, too. _And maybe it's time Francis and I learned to be the same,_ he thought to himself. _Oh, these authors. These children of mine. Huh_.

'Harrumph,' he grunted, hauling himself to his feet. 'You're perfectly right, Lewis: there's no sense in moping.'

'Hurrah!' Lewis said, clapping him on the shoulder. 'That's the spirit! Now, since I've so luckily caught you both together, I hope you won't mind if I stick around for a while?'

'Excellent idea,' Tolkien agreed heartily, while England ground his teeth in despair. _These authors; will they _never_ stop haunting me?_ 'Why don't we stroll down to the tavern and have a drink?'

'I'm not in the mood,' England said coldly.

'Humour us!' Lewis cried, seizing his arm in a grip that was very firm for that of a ghost. 'Get his other side, Tolkien. Come on, you'll feel much better. Off we go!'

* * *

><p>'I have to say,' Lewis declared two and a half hours later, 'they can brew a dashed fine beer in your home county, Tolkien.'<p>

'Here here!' England said enthusiastically, waving his tankard. 'Take that, Germany! Not that he's such a bad fellow,' he added as an afterthought.

'I would deny it,' Tolkien sighed, 'but to do so would be false modesty. Nobody does it like the Hobbits of Oxfordshire! Say, are you getting to the bottom of your glass, Kirkland? Let's have another round, eh?'

'Well, I don't know,' England hesitated, peering at his watch without much success – it seemed to have grown a few extra hands over the last hour's drinking. 'I do have a meeting tomorrow…'

'Oh, come now, Kirkland, don't be a spoilsport!' Lewis protested, waving for the barman. 'You can manage another before we call it a night.

'After all, don't forget you're drinking for three!'

**A/N: Many thanks to Essence 'what would I do without her' of Gold for the last line. Here ends this serendipitous little fic; many thanks again to anon for an awesome prompt, and to everyone who commented so kindly on the meme and over here. **

**On a side-note: have you noticed how all the little icons for promoting fics on different 'social networking' sites shove the titles of chapters all off-centre?**

**Review reply to **TangerineTea**, because you don't have PMs enabled: **it's a fair cop, since I did no research. On the other hand, it depends what he meant by 'hates writing.' I'm sure we've all detested the grind of putting pen to paper at some point, but I don't think he could have written LOTR if he didn't love creating worlds and characters. Anyway, glad you liked it overall, and please do tell me these things; I always want to know more about writers.

**alloette: **No, it's not sad at all, since one author talking in not-particularly-period-accurate olde-worlde speech sounds very much like another. Maybe it should have been Chaucer, since he came earlier, but I felt that Shakespeare was more iconic.


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